How I Became a Poet

28th Sep 201828th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

WeChat Image_20180928083013

I often think about the how I became a poet.
All those years of reading, when nobody
was nearly interested.

My father was a romantic.
He could read aloud poems by
Keats, Shelley and Byron.
I couldn’t understand any of it, I doubt he could.
But it sounded good.

I settled into a life,
evoked of love and steadfast promises.
And discovered Neruda and personal
colours of hope.

But in life
the dark mornings always come.
Just listen to the coughs,
and the blood stained phlegm of cancer
You will know what I mean.
Then I found Bukowski
and began to see
that being a fool is normal.
And shit happens in life.

“I am a writer” he said.
At least he endured trying.

So now….. I get out of bed
and I write poems.

Sometimes a painful submission of words,
that almost every poet thinks.
But that’s normal…..
at least for me.

Strange Currencies

27th Sep 201827th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Pictures: Vietnam Military History Museum; Hanoi, Vietnam

A sullen walk, bones and
souls delivered to a dying audience.
The outnumbered sleepers
cast a mile to face the torrents
of halcyon days.

Sometimes strange things happen.

A communist asked me

“Do you know the difference
between Vietnamese Communism
and Chinese Communism?”

To be honest…I did not.
A soul and body question
not left to simply stand.

I sensed the passion,
a soul fierce and mean.
A love grown cold from
distant memory flashbacks.
Pitch black with surround sound.
And mutilated by loss of gentle light
and news of the old brigades.

So I said:

“The characterization of the struggle”

I put attention and love into this answer.
A potent phenomenon with
no time for ignorance or fears unknown.

Was the communist satisfied?
I don’t know…..
But we all learn to do necessary things.

The Warmest Night Of The Year

27th Sep 201827th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: River Wei: Xinxiang City: Henan Province, China.

The warmest night of the year,
I walked a straight road by the River Wei.
People passed by, children not answering.
Dogs dressed in pink boots, and couples
a great distance to be spoken.

The world seemed dimly white,
hidden and slanting.
Shy is its lonely wonder.
A squeaked rodent ran passed, pleasing life
for an unknown future.
A solemn thing, I think.

Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas,
smiled at me, alone in spirit and indifference.
Dancing dragonflies, ascending and descending
like a madness of Sisyphus, danced all night.
And a tiny breeze passed by, more in
placid hope than how to do things.

A Wandering Poet

As I walk around I like to record what I experience. Through poetry, ideas and thoughts I hope I can share some of these experiences with you.

Philosophy

How I Became a Poet

I often think about the how I became a poet.
All those years of reading, when nobody
was nearly interested.

My father was a romantic.
He could read aloud poems by
Keats, Shelley and Byron.
I couldn’t understand any of it, I doubt he could.
But it sounded good.

I settled into a life,
evoked of love and steadfast promises.
And discovered Neruda and personal
colours of hope.

But in life
the dark mornings always come.
Just listen to the coughs,
and the blood stained phlegm of cancer
You will know what I mean.
Then I found Bukowski
and began to see
that being a fool is normal.
And shit happens in life.

“I am a writer” he said.
At least he endured trying.

So now….. I get out of bed
and I write poems.

Sometimes a painful submission of words,
that almost every poet thinks.
But that’s normal…..
at least for me.

Strange Currencies

A sullen walk, bones and
souls delivered to a dying audience.
The outnumbered sleepers
cast a mile to face the torrents
of halcyon days.

Sometimes strange things happen.

A communist asked me

“Do you know the difference
between Vietnamese Communism
and Chinese Communism?”

To be honest…I did not.
A soul and body question
not left to simply stand.

I sensed the passion,
a soul fierce and mean.
A love grown cold from
distant memory flashbacks.
Pitch black with surround sound.
And mutilated by loss of gentle light
and news of the old brigades.

So I said:

“The characterization of the struggle”

I put attention and love into this answer.
A potent phenomenon with
no time for ignorance or fears unknown.

Was the communist satisfied?
I don’t know…..
But we all learn to do necessary things.

The Warmest Night Of The Year

The warmest night of the year,
I walked a straight road by the River Wei.
People passed by, children not answering.
Dogs dressed in pink boots, and couples
a great distance to be spoken.

The world seemed dimly white,
hidden and slanting.
Shy is its lonely wonder.
A squeaked rodent ran passed, pleasing life
for an unknown future.
A solemn thing, I think.

Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas,
smiled at me, alone in spirit and indifference.
Dancing dragonflies, ascending and descending
like a madness of Sisyphus, danced all night.
And a tiny breeze passed by, more in
placid hope than how to do things.

A small road, transporting and fleeting.
A clearing of the mind.
Lie good night, lie good night.

I often think about the how I became a poet. All those years of reading, when nobody was nearly interested.

My father was a romantic. He could read aloud poems by Keats, Shelley and Byron. I couldn’t understand any of it, I doubt he could. But it sounded good.

I settled into a life, evoked of love and steadfast promises. And discovered Neruda and personal colours of hope.

But in life the dark mornings always come. Just listen to the coughs, and the blood stained phlegm of cancer You will know what I mean. Then I found Bukowski and began to see that being a fool is normal. And shit happens in life.

“I am a writer” he said. At least he endured trying.

So now….. I get out of bed and I write poems.

Sometimes a painful submission of words, that almost every poet thinks. But that’s normal….. at least for me.

A sullen walk, bones and souls delivered to a dying audience. The outnumbered sleepers cast a mile to face the torrents of halcyon days.

Sometimes strange things happen.

A communist asked me

“Do you know the difference between Vietnamese Communism and Chinese Communism?”

To be honest…I did not. A soul and body question not left to simply stand.

I sensed the passion, a soul fierce and mean. A love grown cold from distant memory flashbacks. Pitch black with surround sound. And mutilated by loss of gentle light and news of the old brigades.

So I said:

“The characterization of the struggle”

I put attention and love into this answer. A potent phenomenon with no time for ignorance or fears unknown.

Was the communist satisfied? I don’t know….. But we all learn to do necessary things.

The warmest night of the year, I walked a straight road by the River Wei. People passed by, children not answering. Dogs dressed in pink boots, and couples a great distance to be spoken.

The world seemed dimly white, hidden and slanting. Shy is its lonely wonder. A squeaked rodent ran passed, pleasing life for an unknown future. A solemn thing, I think.

Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas, smiled at me, alone in spirit and indifference. Dancing dragonflies, ascending and descending like a madness of Sisyphus, danced all night. And a tiny breeze passed by, more in placid hope than how to do things.

A small road, transporting and fleeting. A clearing of the mind. Lie good night, lie good night.

I often think about the how I became a poet.
All those years of reading, when nobody
was nearly interested.

My father was a romantic.
He could read aloud poems by
Keats, Shelley and Byron.
I couldn’t understand any of it, I doubt he could.
But it sounded good.

I settled into a life,
evoked of love and steadfast promises.
And discovered Neruda and personal
colours of hope.

But in life
the dark mornings always come.
Just listen to the coughs,
and the blood stained phlegm of cancer
You will know what I mean.
Then I found Bukowski
and began to see
that being a fool is normal.
And shit happens in life.

“I am a writer” he said.
At least he endured trying.

So now….. I get out of bed
and I write poems.

Sometimes a painful submission of words,
that almost every poet thinks.
But that’s normal…..
at least for me.

A sullen walk, bones and
souls delivered to a dying audience.
The outnumbered sleepers
cast a mile to face the torrents
of halcyon days.

“Do you know the difference
between Vietnamese Communism
and Chinese Communism?”

To be honest…I did not.
A soul and body question
not left to simply stand.

I sensed the passion,
a soul fierce and mean.
A love grown cold from
distant memory flashbacks.
Pitch black with surround sound.
And mutilated by loss of gentle light
and news of the old brigades.

I put attention and love into this answer.
A potent phenomenon with
no time for ignorance or fears unknown.

Was the communist satisfied?
I don’t know…..
But we all learn to do necessary things.

The warmest night of the year,
I walked a straight road by the River Wei.
People passed by, children not answering.
Dogs dressed in pink boots, and couples
a great distance to be spoken.

The world seemed dimly white,
hidden and slanting.
Shy is its lonely wonder.
A squeaked rodent ran passed, pleasing life
for an unknown future.
A solemn thing, I think.

Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas,
smiled at me, alone in spirit and indifference.
Dancing dragonflies, ascending and descending
like a madness of Sisyphus, danced all night.
And a tiny breeze passed by, more in
placid hope than how to do things.

A small road, transporting and fleeting.
A clearing of the mind.
Lie good night, lie good night.